AUGUST 30, 2026 – We’re now in the middle of “State Fair Season” in our small town—Falcon Heights, Minnesota, population, 5,369. Every year, the “heights,” as I sometimes call it (tongue in cheek), is at the height of its powers from the 12th day before Labor Day through that holiday, when around two million people attend the “Great Minnesota Get-Together” here at the geographic center of the Twin Cities Metropolitan Area (population: 3.2 million). As our French/Portuguese daughter-in-law remarked to me after our family’s day at the fair, “I’ve never seen so many people gathered in one place.” Neither have I—except, perhaps, at a waterfront extravaganza in Seoul in the heart of the Seoul Capital Area (population: 26 million).
Many, if not most, people say of the fair, “It’s all about the food.” Given the creativity and ubiquity of food vendors, good reason exists for the fair’s reputation as a place to gorge oneself on fare unavailable—and unthinkable—at any other time or place of the year. My own preference is “same-old”: an extra juicy half-pound turkey sandwich . . . sold from a stand directly opposite the main entrance to the Poultry Building. This year the sandwich cost 16 bucks, but it was worth it. It’s the only fair food I ate this year. Perhaps I would’ve supplemented it with an order of lefse and lingonberries—if the Food Building where the potato-based Norwegian delicacy is typically sold hadn’t been a human sardine can. (Despite my Swedish heritage, I didn’t go for Ole & Lena’s “Hotdish on a Stick,” sold at an independent kiosk down in the “farm animal district” of the fairgrounds. The word, “hotdish” and the absence of a block-long queue—a standard phenomenon at most other food booths—told me all I needed to know.
If I’m not a “fair foodie” when the fair is “all about the food,” then why do I attend every year? Good question. Inevitably, it’s a (rhetorical) question I ask myself within 10 minutes of gaining admission to the Get-Together. Upon stepping into the Fine Arts Building, however, and viewing the endless exhibition of Minnesota visual artists, I know why; OR upon boarding a $70,000 luxury pontoon boat on display; OR walking past the couple dozen antique tractors, many of which are huffing, puffing and wheezing as if engaged in a “back in the day” conversation among nonagenarian farmers sitting on the veranda of a nursing home in a small Minnesota town surrounded by cornfields; OR wandering through the Creative Arts Building and stopping for all too long beside a scale model, “Spanish Galleon,” meticulously designed and masterfully crafted down to the finest detail; OR strolling through the crowded Horticultural Building, where all sorts of wondrous fruits and flowers of the earth are on display—plus the ever popular “crop art” made entirely from seeds; OR passing through the Education Building, where dozens of organizations and governmental agencies have booths filled with interesting information and where every year I get to stop at the station of the Minnesota Secretary of State and tell the representatives how much I appreciate the consistently high-quality service their office provides the business law community, not to mention voters—which compliments never fail to prompt genuine appreciation on the part of the staffers for being told they’re appreciated (as the gold standard for their counterparts across the rest of the country) . . .
Or maybe why I attend the state fair is to have a deeply enriching half-hour conversation with an emissary of the Minnesota African-American Heritage Museum and Gallery, taking a deep dive into history, as well as politics, and hearing among many other insights, the statement, “You might oppose reparations, but be thankful we’re not demanding retribution.”
Or to go a full 10 hours without seeing a single Trump or MAGA hat or shirt.[1]
Or maybe what the fair is really all about is seeing the T-shirts people wear. Soon after entering the grounds, I scribbled in my little “material” pocket notebook some of the funnier sayings. Here are a few samples:
I could gopher a beer. [The gopher is the state animal and mascot of the University of Minnesota]
Artificial Intelligence is better than natural stupidity.
The Minnesota State Fair: The Great Minnesota Stick-Together.
Go outside. Drink Beer.
Read Books. Stay Weird. Fight Evil.
Pliny the Elder
Not Left. Not Right. Forward.
Make America Grateful Again.
Only You Can Fight Fascism [With an image of Smokey the Bear]
I’m going to stand outside. In other words, I’m outstanding.
This isn’t fun anymore.
DON’T FORGET MY SENIOR DISCOUNT.
Occasional Adult.
I don’t struggle with anxiety. I’m actually quite good at it.
And my personal favorite:
Ski Nebraska. [With the outline of a farmstead featuring an old windmill.]
Or perhaps why I attend the fair is to mix with humanity—or at least a subset numbering 204,000 (a record for the first Friday of the fair); fellow Minnesotans, well-behaved in place and time, mostly throwing their empty food containers in the easy-to-spot-and-frequently-emptied refuse receptacles, and generous in extending standard courtesies such as saying “excuse me” and “thank you” and waiting in line interminably and politely for . . . a fresh donut.
Subscribe to this blog and received notifications of new posts by email.
© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
[1] While I was talking with a member of Keith Ellison’s campaign staff at the DFL pavilion, however, two older guys approached and interrupted us. “He supports Somali fraud!” one of the men said in a much louder voice than was necessary, as he pointed at the nearby campaign photo of Ellison. –“If you’re concerned about fraud,” I said, “you can start in the White House. Neither Keith Ellison nor any other state official supports fraud. The fraud you’re referring to was detected years ago by state investigators, who reported it to the FBI, which built the case against the fraudsters—the ringleader of whom, by the way, was a white woman native to Minnesota. The fraudsters were convicted or pled guilty and were sentenced to prison, so don’t go around repeating the totally preposterous irresponsible statements you’ve heard.” The guy ignored completely every word I’d said. He changed the subject by jabbing his finger in the air at Ellison’s picture and yelling, “He’s a communist!” –“Define communist,” I said. “That guy there,” he said. “That’s a communist.” –“That’s a label you’re putting on someone,” I said “without understanding or explaining a thing about the label. Define communist. And what makes Keith Ellison a communist?” –“He’s a communist,” the guy insisted in his ignorance. As I walked away from that senseless exchange, I realized I’d experienced the lowest common denominator of our democracy.
